


Decipher

by dormiensa



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bondlock, Gen, One-Shot, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Skyfall, Puzzles, Q is a Holmes, some psychological trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 17:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormiensa/pseuds/dormiensa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q was determined to solve the puzzle that was Silva's algorithm.  But first, he needed some resources.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decipher

_Mary Morstan_.

 

He stared at the name engraved on the dark stone.  Such—such an _ordinary_ name.  Such an _ironic_ name, in some ways.  There was nothing saintly about her.  In fact, Q was quite sure that she would’ve sent anyone away with a flea in his ear for pointing out the connection.

 

But thinking back to the day in that dull, sparse, claustrophobic interrogation room, when, instead of informing him that he would be spending the rest of his natural life in a similar room, she had offered him a job in Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service, he realized that at least the motherly aspect of the name _did_ apply.  Indeed, she had been a mother to all of her staff.  She had been a dragon lady of a mother, it was true, who took one to task for any shortcomings, but she’d also been very forgiving, especially of the double-ohs… one double-oh in particular.  And the testimonies by her husband and a string of nephews and nieces attested to the fact that she had extended this motherly capacity to all parts of her life. 

 

Still, learning M’s real name came as almost a disappointment.

 

And here he was, the only one still holding silent vigil by her grave.  He had seen Tanner encourage a weeping Moneypenny to take the stone-faced Bond away before he imploded with repressed emotion.  He had said goodbye to Molly—M’s niece apparently (it was a very small world)—and finally been shyly introduced to her silver-haired companion, Greg.  Just a first name, another plain, ordinary name for a rather non-descript face.  Of course, his posture, his clothes, and the calm control he had over his voice had given other vital clues as to who he was and his occupation, but Q knew that to greet the man as Detective Inspector Lestrade was to bring unwanted attention his way.  And right now, he could do without scrutiny of any form.

 

No one in MI-6 had blamed him for the error he had made that had led to M’s death.  In fact, before he left, Tanner had whispered to Q that he should not blame himself, that he would not be held accountable.  But Q did blame himself.  It was a stupid mistake, one that _he_ should not have made. 

 

So, here he stood.  He was still haunted at night by her last words to 007, the abrupt silence that had followed, and the uninhibited outpour of grief from a man that even Death had not broken.  Q had immediately switched his focus from the tragic moment, giving final orders and coordinates so that they could be extracted.  But he could not forget what he’d heard. 

 

Finally rousing himself to slowly walk away, Q became once again aware of his surroundings.  Looking about carefully, scrutinizing every shadow and potential hiding spot for spying eyes, he took stock before finally heading toward and reaching the second dark tombstone in the quiet cemetery.

 

As he stared at the name carved on this other stone, memories came flooding back of the day he had held vigil before it.  Of course, the grief he’d experienced that day had been crippling.  That day, he’d been forced to realize that his brother was dead.  That the footage from the CCTV cameras he had been replaying over and over had not been clips from a horror movie.  It suddenly hit Q that it was a strange parallel, these two recent deaths he’d witnessed: one had been all-visual, the other audio-only.  He felt a shiver up his spine: he hoped to never witness one that was both audio and visual.

 

Q took a deep breath.  He knew now, of course, that Sherlock’s death had been faked to protect his brother’s closest friends, the third whom he finally met today at M’s funeral.  Ironic, really.  A small part of him had clung onto the hope that M’s death had been grossly exaggerated, despite evidence to the contrary.  He just could not fathom MI-6 without her.  And while the news of his brother’s resurrection was still new, he could at least take comfort in the fact that the world still possessed a living and breathing Sherlock Holmes.

 

Shaking his head, he looked at the name on the tombstone once more.  For him, it now represented a reminder.  A reminder of what he still had to do.  A reminder of a debt he owed.  For he owed Sherlock doubly.  First, for his life—he’d been forced to take a week off to attend his brother’s funeral and then go through the motions of bereavement, so he’d been away from Q-branch the day Silva had bombed their now old HQ.  Second, for the vital information that Moriarty had been Silva’s consultant and supplier of the sophisticated program that had been used to override security at the new HQ and had led to all the subsequent chaos.  This information had been given to him in an encrypted message on his personal phone yesterday.  And there was only one person in the world who could’ve sent that message.

 

Taking another deep breath, Q nodded to the tombstone and turned away. 

 

_Sherlock, the next time we meet, I’m going to shake your hand and then slug you._

 

***

 

Q looked up at the stately stone façade and sighed.  It seemed he was doomed to be haunted by memories today.

 

The suit who opened the door and ushered him in silently motioned for him to follow.  Q was not surprised to be led toward the armchair before the fireplace. 

 

Mycroft looked up in surprise.  “Quesfort, what an unexpected pleasure!  Sit, please.  Some wine, perhaps?  Or are you planning on returning to the office?”

 

“No wine, thank you.  Some tea would be lovely.”  Q waited until the suit had retreated to give the orders before answering Mycroft’s other question.  “No, I’m not going back to Q-branch.  In fact, if you grant me this favour, I probably won’t be returning for a while, not unless they need me on-site.  Mycroft, I’d like a safehouse set up with a closed-loop system that I can use to examine the hard-drive with Silva’s algorithm.  I need to know what other plans he had to take down MI-6.  I _know_ killing M was just a first step.”

 

“Quesfort, are you certain you want to do this?  That device may contain a tracking system.  Even with maximum protection, you’d still be an easy target.”

 

“I wasn’t that protected at HQ.  In fact, having the hard-drive in Q-branch made _all of_ _London_ an easy target.  It is still too soon to know if there are any other serious threats that have yet to come to light.”

 

“Very well, I will see if a suitable location that eases _my_ peace of mind can be found and furnished.  You’ll send me a list of things you require?  And Quesfort, please, whatever you do, keep out of harm’s way.  I don’t think I could handle losing another brother.”

 

***

 

A week later, Q was settled into the safehouse.

 

And now, he could monitor Q-branch _and_ openly work on his two side projects.  He’d begun the first one the day after his transcription program had finished running and given him a copy of the final conversation Sherlock had had with Moriarty on the rooftop of St. Bart’s.  The CCTV cameras might not supply audio, but they were of sufficient quality for a computer to decode dialogue by reading lips.  Parts of their conversation would be forever lost where either one had stood at an angle that made it impossible for any of the cameras to get a clear visual on his lips, but a sufficient amount of dialogue _had_ been recovered to make Q understand why Sherlock had jumped.

 

Currently, DI Lestrade was still on probation, but at least he retained his job.  The Chief Superintendent was not so lucky.  Nasty photos extracted from The Woman’s treasure trove of a databank—it was nice to have a brother in high places—had caused quite a scandal inside _the Met_ and forced an immediate resignation of the wanker.  The troublesome duo of Donovan and Anderson were facing their own problems.  Mistakes in their cases that they’d thought had been covered up re-surfaced.  Moreover, Anderson’s wife and Donovan’s mum had also received photos, photos of the two of them in… compromising poses.  Q was not a vindictive person by nature, but he had quite enjoyed making trouble for them, although the pleasure had not been as great as that of ensuring that the nasty Kitty Reilly would never be able to publish any of her writing again, on any form of print and social media with a readership.  He had not felt a moment’s guilt or hesitation in bringing her down.

 

As for John, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly, he had two trustworthy junior staff members monitoring them and ensuring they were safe.  Q had signed permission slips that allowed the juniors to take necessary steps to bring them to safety if it was required and Q himself was not on-hand to take control of the situation.  Before this self-imposed isolation, Q had dropped in on Mrs. Hudson to see how she and John were faring; he knew to not let John see him.  With Molly, he’d struck up a chat on his personal phone.  Things between them had stopped being awkward once they’d gotten over the shock of the blind date John had set up for them.  And the camaraderie they found with each other had only deepened now that he was in on the secret and was being badgered by Sherlock to transfer monies to him through Molly. 

 

Q turned his attention to his second project, the one that had required his isolation inside this safehouse and surrounded by all this sophisticated equipment.  It had been a stroke of luck that he’d gotten his hands on Moriarty’s android phone.  He had not expected any master plans to have been stored on the device—and he had not been disappointed—but careful digging had uncovered a few addresses that he sent to Sherlock.  Q plugged the phone into Silva’s algorithm and, taking a page from Bond, began looking for any new keywords that might result from connecting the two.

 

For the next several hours, Q jotted down a list of words that, while they did not seem at all significant, he would pass onto Sherlock, Tanner, Mycroft… and Bond.  Q smiled.  While his relationship with the double-oh was still awkward and not-yet established, he felt that he could trust Bond.  Certainly, if it weren’t for the man’s help, Silva might still now be at large.  And learning that a connection existed between Silva and Moriarty, it was a godsend that they’d been able to kill two birds with one stone.  It didn’t make the task of dismantling Moriarty’s network any easier, but at least Silva’s operation had given a hint at the level of complexity Sherlock would be dealing with and Q would need to counter to prevent another horrendous breach of security.  

 

***

 

Over the next few weeks, Q plugged in new devices for the algorithm to interact with and decrypt.  A few of these had been sent by Sherlock from the locations Q had sent him and retrieved from designated drop-offs by one of Q’s guards.  Tired of staring at the algorithm constantly, Q had designed a program to extract keywords that could be of import and display these on a different screen.  The program was not perfect, and Q always made sure to look at the algorithm to find and fill in any gaps, but it did allow him to take small breaks and rest his eyes. 

 

Sitting back down before the multi-panelled screen, Q sipped his tea.  And choked.  A new name on the list caught his eye.

 

_Eugene O’Neill._

 

***

 

After another week of furious searching, cross-checking, and pacing in frustration while clutching his hair, there was no longer any doubt in Q’s mind as to who Silva’s next target would have been.  The audacity.  That he would _dare_ … Damn that Moriarty to the depths of Hell!

 

Q reached for his personal phone.

 

_Mycroft, you were to be Silva’s next target.  Please send complete list of staff to be cross-checked.  If you need protection, I can be liaison with Bond.  QH_

 

Q heaved a sigh.  He knew that Mycroft was more than capable of seeing to his own safety, and his suggestion of having Bond safeguard him was only a last resort in case his brother found his trust misplaced.  What was of greater concern to Q was that he had yet to find any clues that suggested what Moriarty and Silva had planned for MI-6—or indeed, the entirety of Whitehall.  Such a sophisticated algorithm could not only have been used to help Silva escape.  And given their vindictiveness in exposing those undercover agents, surely nothing short of the collapse of the entire United Kingdom both internally and diplomatically would satisfy them.

 

Back to the grindstone it was.

 

***

 

Q stared at the information before him in disbelief.  But even as he reeled from the shock, a thought registered and clarified itself, finally.  He’d had this vague, nagging feeling for weeks, ever since he first laid eyes on the algorithm.  There was something familiar about it.  And now he knew why.  The algorithm was mind-boggling and nothing he’d ever come across, but there had been an underlying something he’d seen before but hadn’t recognized until now.

 

Now, knowing what was at stake and how formidable an adversary he was truly up against, Q took extra care in composing his encrypted message.  Triple-checking his message, he allowed a small upward twitch of the corners of his lips.  Unless one was an expert on polyphonic music of the Franco-Flemish school and, more specifically, Lassus’ more obscure motets, it would be almost impossible to uncover the message he’d hidden inside what seemed to be an innocent music clip.  Q still marvelled that Sherlock had devised this coding system when he was ten.

 

_Moriarty’s second-in-command is a hacker named Sebastian Moran.  Details to follow.  QH_

 

Now, to alert Mycroft.  That was much harder.  Mycroft’s life was not in danger any longer, but it would still be unwise to send him an encrypted electronic message of any type.  Q wracked his brains. 

 

Suddenly, he stopped and smiled.  If only Bond knew what a muse he had become.

 

***

 

Two minutes after Q arrived in front of the Babbage Difference Engine at the Science Museum, Mycroft joined him.  To Q’s immense relief, Mycroft seemed to have sensed the seriousness of the situation, for he did not attempt his usual inane pleasantries.

 

“Quesfort?”

 

“There is a mole inside MI-5.”

 

*****************************************

 

_A/N: “Quesfort” is a name that i made up.  i looked for and failed to find a “Q” name that satisfied my criteria for an appropriate Holmes sibling first name.  this is a one-shot and snapshot of a bit of head-canon that’s been developing through reading other fascinating bondlock stories here on AO3.  00Q is not part of said head-canon, but if readers wish to construe that with this story, well, it’s a free country!_


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